


The One Where Hermione Prepares a Proposal First, But Severus Isn’t Far Behind

by chobots_so_hot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chobots_so_hot/pseuds/chobots_so_hot
Summary: Proposal (Noun)(1)	A plan or suggestion, especially a formal or written one, put forward for consideration or discussion by others.(2) An offer of marriage.





	The One Where Hermione Prepares a Proposal First, But Severus Isn’t Far Behind

Severus looked over the length of parchment before him. “It does not appear to have grown since last night,” he drawled to the curly haired witch before him. 

“I didn’t add more,” Hermione replied, her tone slightly exasperated. “I might have actually taken a few things out, and definitely rephrased some things. I don’t want to come off as haughty, or a ‘know-it-all,’ as you so lovingly commented yesterday,” she added air quotes and a sharp look at this, “but I do know what I’m talking about- I mean, elvish rights, I’ve only been researching them since I was still at Hogwarts!” 

She stopped to take a breath and resettle herself, self-consciously smoothing her hair down, as though her exclamation would shock it back to its once bushy state. Severus flashed his own look of exasperation, and tapped the parchment with his wand. It snapped back into its previously rolled form. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped, turning sharply around. He picked up a different paper, which nearly rivaled the previous parchment in length. Various measures and ingredients were scrawled on it, with an unceremonious “Inventory” titled at the top. Severus scanned along its length, trying to see where he had left off before Miss Granger had barged into his store. 

Willow bark. Wolfsbane. Wormswood. 

All was quiet, save for the sounds of street passersby, shuffling and scampering through Knockturn Alley. Severus looked up from his list and dared a peek over his shoulder. Hermione continued to stand, hunched slightly over the counter so she could prop her chin in her hand. With the other, she was lightly tracing her words, line by line, rereading through her work quickly. Severus gritted his teeth and nearly slammed the inventory list onto the back counter. Hermione didn’t glance up at the outburst. 

“This is not a library,” Severus seethed, whipping around to slap his hands to the front counter, framing Hermione’s small hunched form. She looked up now, her eyes wide. Her gaze, so big and brown, held a mixture of quiet persistence and pleading. As always, Severus felt and heard himself, his misplaced anger. His hands were smarting slightly from their multiple impacts. He continued to look at her, and he felt that extreme annoyance of encroachment whistle out of him, felt the hot anger cool to a soft warmth. 

It was stupid, all of this! Not only her know-it-all personality or her persistence to force change and tackle things well out of her purview-- be they within Hogwarts walls or, as she was now, within the ministry-- but also her own self-doubt. That a witch as brilliant and fearless and compassionate as her could ever hesitate to move forward, could ever believe that, flawed or flawless, her work and her ideas and her words wouldn’t soar well above anything that could resemble competition? 

Preposterous. 

He looked away from her finally, and added in a lowered voice, “It’s fine. Your message comes through clear, and your tone is…knowledgeable. As it should be, with the amount of time and effort that you put into your proposal.” He chanced a glance back, and found her staring at the parchment again. 

“I’m just so nervous though,” she whispered to it. “Everyday I’m at Hogwarts, and- well, the job is fine, Muggle Studies, someone needs to teach that class with a foothold in both worlds!” 

Severus snickered very, very softly at that. She heard him, he was sure, but she continued. 

“But everyday I’m there, and there’s the feast, and all the other feasts, and the cleaning, and all the other little things that just happen, and nobody acknowledges or says anything! And then I think of Dobby,” Hermione choked a little here, her big eyes growing glassy. “And I think of Kreacher, and all the others that I’ve met, and I just want to do something for them, something more than knitting them hats and socks.” She blushed slightly remembering all those hats stacked on Dobby’s head. She gave a startled laugh at the memory, and tried to blink away the tears. One escaped, rolling large and quick down her cheek, landing lightly on the elvish rights parchment below. 

“I just hope this is enough, without upsetting magical folk or the elves-” 

Severus had moved along the counter and enveloped the witch against him. He waved a hand over the parchment, wicking away the moisture, and with the same hand brushed along her cheek, drying the moisture from her face. He then hunched over her shorter form and pressed his face into her hair. It smelled of her, some combination of shampoo and other hair products (namely the one she used frequently to keep her hair calmed of its naturally bushy state), along with ink and the dust of books creaked open and snapped closed- and something that was undeniably and wholly her. 

“You are dawdling,” he murmured into her hair. 

“I’m not,” came a weak reply into his robes. His hold tightened slightly. 

“You are,” he insisted. “You are…” 

Brilliant. 

“You are doubting yourself,” 

Fearless. 

“When you well know,” 

How right you are for daring to care. 

“That you’ve exhausted the research, and have rewritten this proposal three times over, as far as I’m aware.” He closed his eyes and inhaled. 

I love you. 

Hermione pulled back, just enough to look up at him. He blinked down at her. He swore sometimes, with the way she looked at him, she might have accomplished Legilimency without his knowledge. 

She smiled slightly, a light blush on her cheeks. “That’s…very kind of you, Severus,” she said softly. A heat bloomed in his chest. Severus. Merlin, when she said his name like that, so soft and tender, it was usually reserved for…other places. 

That heat blossomed in his groin now, as well. 

“But, if you could just,” her eyes flickered back to the parchment, then at him. “Just look it over one last time?” 

He pulled a face, and drew his gaze up high for the most flagrant of eye rolls. 

“Oh, please Severus,” she gripped his robes, pushing her body against his. 

Not fair. 

“Please, it’ll be the last time, I swear, I’ll deliver it to the ministry today on my way to the school,” she looked frantically around her. “And I can help with the shop, in the meantime. You told me inventory is usually on the 15th, right?” 

He could feel her eyes once again on him, but he continued to stare and scowl resolutely at the ceiling. He would do it, of course. But best to see how much she would do for him in return.

Slytherin through and through, after all. 

“That would hardly be helpful,” he replied. “You flitting about looking for all those ingredients-- some of these bottles don’t have labels.” He gazed down his long nose at her. “As I recall, potions wasn’t your strongest subject, especially during your 6th year-“ 

Hermione abruptly pushed away from him, her face hot. 

“Oh, please!” She crossed her arms, and gave him her most venomous look, practiced and honed upon disruptive students in her class. “I’m so sorry, dear Half-blood Prince!” 

Severus flinched slightly. Ah, this has spiraled quite quickly, he thought bitterly. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of brewing in your magical presence,” she swept behind him, moving quickly to the back counter and snatching the inventory list from its innocent resting place. “But I should think you’d allow me to count inventory in the shop,” she seethed, turning back to him, “considering the amount of closets and backrooms we’ve shagged in!” 

She had exploded on her last words, her arms tossed in the air, face flushed. He could feel his own arousal building-- she would dare to raise her voice to him? And then mention their more…impulsive and carnal meetings? He had half a mind to drag her back into a closet now; with the other half, he was mindful that the store had not yet opened, and that the sign on the front door declared so. 

Hermione took two steps forward and stabbed a finger into his chest. “Now,” she snapped, “you are going to read my proposal one more time,” here, she stabbed her finger at the parchment, “while I go through and probably finish your precious inventory list.” She stalked off into the shop without a backward glance. “And I want honest feedback, Severus, or so help me I will never join you in a backroom here again!”

She disappeared into a room, and Severus smiled in spite of himself. He turned back to the task at hand. Feeling along the lining of his robes, he grasped a small, velvet black box. He had been too distracted to really read over the inventory list to begin with; otherwise, he too would have had it finished by now. 

Instead, his thoughts continued to stray back to the witch currently rummaging through his shop. He loved her, so completely and wholly-- and she loved him. He knew that just as assuredly. And he had waited-- Merlin, they both had. Through the war, past the manic continuation of life, through breakups and new jobs and old friendships and harrowed pasts, they had made it through, and had still found each other. 

Or, maybe because of it, they had chosen each other. 

He didn’t want to know, to understand it was to dissect and inspect it, to prod and question it. He done enough of that at the beginning. So had Hermione. Now they were settled, and they lived their own lives as much as shared one. And he would be happy to continue this, them, forever. He’d never experienced this back and forth flow of love from anyone, had not thought he’d have the opportunity or capacity for it. And even if she rejected him now, turned him away and ran into the arms of the savior or the red haired git, then he would still have this feeling, these memories. No one could take that from him now. The possibility of more, to have and to hold her before the ministry, before the world- the thought tortured him, pleasure and pain side by side. 

Hermione, the ring slipped over her finger, her face glowing with happiness. Would she be surprised, or would some part of her have known, have hoped? 

Hermione, looking at the ring with hesitation, with confusion, not wanting more, suddenly wanting less, turning away from him… 

His jaw clenched, and he rubbed his fingers along the velvet box. He would not not try, he told himself sharply. He remembered his cowardice, his internal loathing. 

Remembered the girl with green eyes. 

He remembered being afraid, rejection, being alone. 

No. 

He was not that little boy anymore. That fool. He had survived the war. He had survived his mistakes. This was his life now, and he would share it with whoever he so wished. 

A door closed, and Hermione glided across the room, heading for the display herbs. Damn, she was making quick work of that list. He steeled himself and shook off his thoughts, focusing on the parchment before him. 

He read through the parchment, initially with the speed of a teacher familiar with his pupil’s work, then again, more slowly, noting the bits she had changed. It was better than the previous version, less explanation and timidity, more authoritative and appealing. He smiled, reading through a third and final time. 

Yes, those ministry idiots would follow up on this proposal, or they would be very foolish indeed. Not only for ignoring such sound reasoning, but because it would not be the last time this witch would be at their door. 

“Well,” Hermione said, suddenly at his elbow. His start was quickly concealed with his sharp turn to face her. She held out the inventory list as though it were a peace offering; gone was the accusing finger and fiery glare. He took the list from her-- noticing that some of his marks had been scratched out, new numbers beside them-- and placed it beside the proposal. He tapped Hermione’s parchment so that it rerolled, and passed it to her awaiting hand. They both looked at each other, and in the stillness, he debated simply dropping to both knees now. Early morning, in the shop where he’d rebuilt his life, her helping him find the pieces that remained? 

“Well,” she emphasized, eyes wide and chin jutting forward. 

Severus coughed and turned away. No, today was her day, the day that progress was moved forward for all beings, “especially those whom the wizarding world lean so heavily upon,” he recalled from the document in her hand. 

“It is improved from last night,” he started. “More succinct, appropriately informed and yet dumbed down enough for even ministry-level viewing.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a ghost of a laugh playing across her features. “Don’t jest now, Severus, this is important!” Her eyes cut back to him. “Did you even read it, or were you just looking for free labor?” Her small smile turned into a smirk. “Or were you too distracted by my comment of backrooms and closets-“ 

“It is still, of course, unreasonably lengthy,” He cut across her speech, making note that her clever comment from earlier was meant to distract him, and vowing to return the gesture with a vengeance. “It will be miraculous if any official even chances to open it instead of immediately sweeping it into a rubbish bin, not wanting to strain their delicate eyesight or nonexistent patience.” He turned from her and moved to the front of the shop. It was past the usual opening time. 

He flipped the sign- a haunting scrawl daring one to “Enter”- and then with a slight smirk of his own, decided to open the door and look back at the witch behind him. With a deadpan gaze and declaring finger, he half-kicked the witch out of his shop. She huffed and, straightening her robe and hair at no rush, sauntered out the door. As she past him, his pointed hand dropped down to brush against hers. She stopped and turned to him, her body half out into the alley. 

He thought of something to say, something placating, honest, words of love and comfort, words of sarcasm and comfort. 

Hermione merely grasped his hand and, eyes shining again, said, “Thank you.” She turned and continued out, adding over her shoulder, “See you at home!” before Disapparating. 

Severus stood in the doorway another moment, staring at the now vacant spot in the alley. Then, he receded back into his shop.

++

Severus was sitting up in bed, reading over the latest Herbology journal, when he heard the sudden and sharp wind of their Floo being used. He didn’t look at the clock; he had just minutes before, and knew she was right on time. 

There was a familiar scuffle and bustle throughout their small house as Hermione went through the motions of resettling her things, unpacking items, looking at and immediately tidying away her mess. She emerged into their bedroom, looking worn but shining a smile and a hello at him, heading across the room towards the dresser. 

Severus watched her change into her night clothes, journal quite forgotten on his lap. He was quickly remembering the yearning he felt for her earlier that morning. She stripped to nothing, very much aware of the eyes on her, and slipped her night gown over her head. It was a sleeveless, pale yellow silk, and though it fell to mid-calf, the ease with which it glided when pushed up and past her thighs easily made it the most sensual thing she owned. 

She went into their bathroom to clean herself for bed- because no, this was her night dress, she was not actively trying to drive the man in her bed insane- and after, settled herself under the sheets next to him. He continued to stare at her, and she felt herself blush under his gaze. 

“What is it?” she snapped, opening one of her closed eyes to look at him. 

He rolled to face her, journal sliding away behind him, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He pulled her to him, caressing the silk fabric just above her arse. He pushed his other arm beneath her pillow, maneuvering so that the pillow laid between her head and his bicep. He hugged her closer, faces inches from hers. 

“Severus,” she breathed, both molten brown eyes meeting his own darker, half-lidded ones. 

“Hermione,” his voice, a gravely baritone in response, drew her attention to the wetness she could feel becoming more prevalent between her thighs. 

His hand slithered, gliding to her hip, down to caress her thigh, his hand heavy and hot and wide, moving down to her knee, half drawing her leg up in the process. 

Or was that her, itching to throw her leg over him, to grind her clit against his erection, already firm against her stomach?

He pressed and curled his hand, grabbing a fistful of fabric, pulling and bunching the gown up, past her knees, pulling slowly up her thighs, deft fingers and roughened palms and warmed silk dragging along her skin. 

She moved forward then, unable to be still under the heat of his unyielding stare, the sensation of his hand, the proof of his need for her trapped between them in the worn cloth of his lounge pants. 

Her lips met his softly, their kiss slow, always slow at first, her eyes always closed before his, him wanting to see her, needing to believe she was real, that all of this was real, before losing himself to his lust, his physical need to love her. Soft lips pressed apart for her sweet tongue to find his, careful kitten licks to tease her taste into him. His hand curved, her bunched dress resting at his wrist, so that he could feel her hip against his palm, then slide his hand down further, cupping one cheek firmly, his fingertips feeling the ridge of buttock and thigh, skirting it, sliding behind and between her, fingertips testing her damp warmth. 

She drew back slightly, her body nearly shivering at the light touch, feeling his fingertips in her but not in her, moving between the outer intimate folds of skin, just outside where she wanted him most. She was panting against him, and gave the slightest shift of her arse back, trying to slip those fingers in, why wasn’t he in already, he was right there-

His hand drew away, and she made a small noise of complaint. 

“Open your eyes, Hermione,” he rasped again. 

She felt the heat of his breath along her cheek. She did as he asked, and was not surprised to see him looking at her again, those dark eyes consuming her, pulling every piece of her soul to him. 

“Lift your leg,” he asked, his hand resting on her hip, his thumb gently stroking the crease of her pelvis, her innermost thigh and hip, just barely brushing her outer pubic hair. 

She bit her bottom lip, feeling the rush of arousal and anticipation nearly overwhelm her. How many times had he had her in his bed, in their bed? How many times, and yet his words, his voice and his hands and his cock, they still hold this power, this silent command, so sure to meet the demands of her body, to soothe the ache that her love for him always created. How many times had they been here, through how many years, and she was still as ready, as eager for him, as the first time?

She wordlessly lifted her leg, hitching it as she had so desperately wanted to against his hip. She could draw his pants down, she thought, draw them down just enough for his erection to slap against his stomach, head slick and length firm and warm in her hand, and he could push right inside her, all of him filling her so exquisitely. 

Instead, he drew her face back down to his, kissing harder, sealing their lips together, exploring her mouth now, while his hand slipped from her waist to find her cunt. She was wetter here, like this, than when he played with her moments ago. She made something like a strangled gasp in his mouth, and he swallowed it eagerly, rolling slightly on top of her, taking all that she had to offer. 

One finger, feeling where she was warmest, and so fucking wet--

Two fingers, stroking the ridges and bumps and flesh, there was no end, only the slick soft of her, his aimless prodding and curling drawing short whimpers from her, separating their lips to gasp and pant wetly into his shoulder, struggling to find the air to breathe through--

Three fingers, and he used the opportunity of their parted kiss to draw away from her, down, to have the leverage to push in, to push deep, wrist slightly straining with the effort, working his hand while the witch before him wreathed, her legs and toes curling, one hand grasped under the pillow, the other curling around his head, his neck, hand sporadic between a gentle caress and the bite of her nails into his neck. 

She was crying out now, her back arching beneath his head. He felt one of her nipples, hard under the fabric of her gown, pressing against his cheek. He turned his head, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth, tasting the silk and warmth of her. She was so close, could tell with the great thrashing of her, the clenching of her against his fingers. He tugged lightly on her nipple, gently, encouraging her. The dampness against his hand flowed over, a wetness laid phantom on the sheet below. Hermione gave a last cry and shuddered in his arms, curling and then relaxing, lying limp on the bed. 

He withdrew his hand, slow and gentle, and pushed her gown up. His pressed a kiss to her stomach -- she acknowledged it with a soft, satiated smile -- and then, breasts exposed, pressed a kiss to her chest, just over her heart. He moved his hand so that he now cupped her breast, idly feeling its weight, its smoothness. With the other breast, his trailed his long nose around the nipple that he had previously suckled. 

A smaller, slender hand drifted, landing to caress long inky strands of his hair. A light hum and a gentle tug, and he obligingly looked to meet her gaze. 

She smiled, slow and lazy. “Will you make love to me now, Severus?” 

He swallowed, and felt the desperate throb in his pants at her words, so casual and expectant. He didn’t answer, but turned to lick and tease her nipple again, no doubt more sensitive to his ministrations with the gown removed. 

Hermione arched her back and hummed more loudly, tugging harder. “Don’t tease,” she pouted, his eyes opening again to meet her, mouth still around her breast. The sight renewed the heat in her, and she spread her legs, one dropping to dangle off the side of their bed. 

“How do you want me?” she purred, and curled her body away, popping her sensitive flesh from his mouth, only to replace the space with her lips. The kiss was rough, his teasing reigniting her passion, his need for her all he knew. 

She swung her leg back into bed and attempt to roll him. She was slight compared to him, though, and he was not the one freshly docile with endorphins. Playfully, there was wrestling, the top blankets push to the foot of the bed or rolled off the side altogether. 

She pinned him beneath her, with her hand slipped into his waistband to caress his cock. He made a strangled noise and immediately settled. 

Anything, he would do anything for that hand, and the witch it belonged to, to show him mercy. 

She smiled at her success, leering over him, and moved her hand, grasping him firmly, loose skin sliding along impossibly firm muscle, squeezing towards the base, and again at the top. She moved higher, sliding her palm against the head -- he jerked his hips involuntarily, the pleasure sharp and unbearable -- and felt wetness there against her palm and soaked into the fabric of his pants. She continued to withdraw her hand (a groan of suffering) to grasp his waistband and tug down. 

He lifted his hips, but she pushed him back down with a hand. “I thought about this earlier,” she spoke softly, more to herself, though he caught every word. 

“I thought about you being so desperate,” 

Waistband tugged under his bollocks, erection nearly tapping his belly button. 

“That you wouldn’t bother undressing,” 

She continued, sitting astride him now, grasping his member again. 

“Just like before, when-“ 

Her breath caught, sinking down, enveloping him inside her. 

“Whenever we had to be quick,” she finished, after sliding completely down, her arse meeting his hips, his thighs. 

Severus looked pained, one hand resting on her knee, the other weakly holding her hip. She leaned back, and bit her lip again. She felt him, all of him, pressing against the flesh deepest in her, the soft tissue she imagined only his cock could reach, could always find-- 

On her stomach, on her back, in the backrooms, in the bath, he always found it, her jaw slack and her eyes rolled and her knees weak

 

He had told her once, in a ragged whisper, her pushed hard against her desk, papers strewn on the floor, 

“I want to be lost in you,” 

Gasping, moving frantically, his robe chafing her inner thighs as he pushed harder, forsaking speed to grind further and further into her, her eyes crossed and so close, so close to reaching the apex of her pleasure. 

“It never ends,” he had gasped. 

“Your warmth-” 

His breath hitched and his strokes faltered, and her hands flew to grab his hips, 

not yet, so close, not yet, together 

His face had screwed up in a grimace. 

“There’s no end, and I’m not deep enough,” 

And she came then, helplessly, knowing that he came with her, together, clutching each other so tightly, wetness gathering behind his eyes, his lungs and his heart on fire. 

 

She recalled the encounter fondly, one of those times they had to be quick, and gently rolled her hips atop his. The hand on her waist twitched. She couldn’t imagine any more of him; the thought, the possibility-- surely if there were more, she would explode. 

His other hand also moved to her hip, both hands firm. He had no leverage, could only squeeze and guide her movements up and down, up and down. His eyes were open again, the pleasure still great but bearable, and he watched her watching him. He felt no need to mask his emotions, his need and love for her, the responses she drew from his body with her every movement.

She leaned forward then, and the angle changed. This was for her now, too, as much as for him. He could move her more, could use his arms to steady her pace when she lost the rhythm, distracted with her own pleasure. She closed her eyes, brow furrowed slightly, a light sheen of sweat across her forehead, her collarbone, her back. He curled his body slightly, raising himself to kiss that furrow, to taste her cries against his lips. One arm around her waist, they tumbled -- nearly off the bed in their frenzy -- and gripping the other arm under her shoulder, Severus lost himself in her. 

Her cries crescendo once again in his ear, familiar but distant against the roaring in his head, the pounding of blood through his veins. His hand shot from her shoulder to her hair, gripping hard, too hard, but he couldn’t stop, heat pooling at the base of his spine now, and he wanted to look at her, to see her face in the throes of passion. 

Instead, through slit eyes, he caught sight of a blissful smile, bottom lip tugged between teeth. He was suddenly aware that the vice around his cock was wet, 

so fucking wet 

and that the legs around his waist were relaxed, his hips having unhindered movements between them. Still gripping her hair, he buried his face between her neck and shoulder. 

“Hermione,” he gasped, his breath wet, and gave a violent shudder in her arms, hips pressing forward, deeper, giving small, helpless thrusts, before finally stuttering out into stillness. 

They stayed in their embrace for some time, Hermione’s hands gently caressing his back. Eventually, he drew back, his cock slipping from her, and settled onto his side. 

She followed him, cupping his face with one hand and kissing him, soft and slow again. Sometimes these kisses led to more, but she tried to convey her satisfaction in this one, her utter and complete contentment. 

He kissed her back, savoring her, before she drifted away, off to relieve and clean herself. He muttered a few spells to himself for roughly the same effect. When she returned, she found him not quite dozing, but certainly as splayed and relaxed as a cat stretching in the afternoon sunlight. She chuckled and set about righting the bed, sliding in and drawing the covers over Severus and herself. 

She felt something hard beneath her pillow. Withdrawing it, she found the journal that Severus had been reading when she came in. 

“Light reading before bed, huh?” she joked, thinking that perhaps next time she could simply come home, prowl across the bed, snatch his reading material away, and have her wicked ways with him-- and, of course, him with her. 

She smiled blissfully at the thought, so distracted that she didn’t notice the hand encircling her wrist, or the missing weight of the book in her hand. 

Severus was looking at her, his eyes wide and burning, all traces of sleep and post-coital bliss gone. Her eyebrows shot up at this abrupt change in the atmosphere of the room. Had her master of Legilimency read her thoughts?

“Hermione,” he said firmly, moving his hand from her wrist to cup her cheek. She encouraged the touch, leaning her face into his palm. 

“Yes, Severus?” she replied, curious. 

He closed his eyes and breathed, quiet for a long moment. When he opened them again, their heat was gone. 

“I love you,” he said simply, and smiled. 

She breathed a laugh and kissed the long, slightly hooked nose before her. “As I love you, Severus.” And, eyes alight and heart full, Hermione easily drift into sleep, her lover’s arms snug around her. 

++

When Hermione woke the next morning, her body was humming with the satisfaction of a good night’s romp and a good night’s rest. She detangled herself and stretched, then continued to the bathroom to ready herself for the day. 

When she returned, Severus was awake as well, and was sitting up in bed. 

“Good morning,” she supplied brightly. 

She moved past him to the dresser, but his hand caught her arm. 

She turned and smiled. “Hmm?” 

He pulled her in front of him, her standing naked, him sitting in his worn shirt and lounge pants. 

“Hermione Jean Granger,” he started, and her heart skipped a beat. Anything and everything around her was suddenly loud and quiet. She felt hyper aware of everything, and yet her vision seemed to tunnel, her sole focus on the man before her. 

“You are the light in my life, the one, the only one, who saw me through the darkness. And before and through everything, everything that we’ve survived alone, and what we’ve built together-” 

Severus’ voice cracked here, but he forced the tears to dry. He would tell her this, everything. He had to, owed that much to her and more. 

“This home, more than the roof that we’re under, but the place,” he paused again, and realized he was staring at her hands, held inside and between his own. He steeled himself and forced his eyes to meet hers. He felt the tear slip past and down, hot on his cheek. 

“The place within me, within my heart, the place that-- that you have settled in, and made your home. It is a place that did not, could not have existed before you. And every day your smile, your words, your sheer brilliance shines so bright, and to feel in within myself, to feel that light grow each time we kiss and fight and fuck and-- Merlin, when I rest my head in your lap and you stroke my head, or you call me an arrogant, prideful arse-” 

A wet gasp from her, and he’s watching the tears down her cheeks as she watches his. 

“Your light has made me whole, Hermione, as whole a man who has done what I have can be.” 

He smiled weakly, thumb caressing the knuckles of one of her hands. 

“Would you marry me, Hermione?” 

Her face twitched, a frown, a smile, and then she threw her arms around him, jumping into his lap with the effort. He caught her and offered no resistance, the momentum propelling him back to the bed, Hermione sobbing atop him. 

Nothing was said for a long while, the two forms clutching each other as the early morning sunlight bathed them. Finally, Hermione gathered herself, pulling back and glancing down. 

Severus’ face was red and splotchy. She imagined the blubbering mess that was probably her own. 

“Oh, Severus, I never thought-- I couldn’t have guessed-- oh, I’m so happy!” She flew down to cling to him fiercely again, and he patted her body, hoping to soothe her. He felt light, like he could float off the bed without her mass on his chest. 

“Hermione,” he spoke, after he felt she had calmed somewhat. 

She hummed. 

“Let me up.” 

“Oh!” She sat up quickly, so that he had to grasp her waist to make sure she didn’t topple off. “I’m sorry, am I crushing-?” 

“No.” He interrupted flatly, sitting up with her in his lap. 

Severus waved his hand, and the Herbology journal appeared on the bedspread. 

Hermione watched as he picked it up and presented it to her. She took it, remembering it from the night before, except—

There was a hardness she hadn’t noticed before, something that blocked the book from shutting completely. Resting the spine of the book on her hand, it opened to pages 393 and 394. There, nestled amongst a picture of a flobberworm root and the heading “New uses discovered for Silipus,” lay a simple, delicate silver ring, a small sapphire encased at the top. 

Hermione could only stare; it would be one of the few times, she would recall much later in life, that she had been rendered utterly speechless. 

“Is that a yes, then?” Severus’ voice came to her. He hadn’t been reading at all the evening before; too distracted by thoughts of when and how and where, he had withdrawn the ring from its box and had stared at it well into the night, hoping to coax the answers from it. 

Hermione looked up from the journal, the way she had looked up from her reading items many times before to meet his gaze -- the way she would look up from her books to him for the rest of her life -- and smiled. 

“Yes.”


End file.
